


Back Alley Brawl

by InkFlavored



Series: Zenyatta Appreciation Week 2018 [6]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Minor Violence, but there's the warning, it's not super graphic, zenyatta kicks the shit out of some assholes is what i'm saying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 11:30:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14079960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkFlavored/pseuds/InkFlavored
Summary: Zenyatta Appreciation Week (Day 6: Danger/Safety)What was important was that they always had an escape plan, and when things were being thrown and voices were raised in anger, Mondatta gave them all the signal to turn and run.





	Back Alley Brawl

**Author's Note:**

> this one was really fun because writing fight scenes is really fun. i don't like making things too graphic, though, so there's my paradox. it's a little short because of that sooooooooooo

Sometimes the Shambali’s attempts at peaceful speeches turned violent, if they said something the people didn’t want to hear. Or, indeed, if they said nothing at all – sometimes the presence of omnics was enough to make people angry. What was important was that they always had an escape plan, and when things were being thrown and voices were raised in anger, Mondatta gave them all the signal to turn and run.

This time was no different.

Not many people had shown up, and zero omnics, but the monks didn’t expect much. Paris, like other large, densely populated, mostly-human cities, had the steepest anti-omnic protestors. After all, they were the ones who reaped most of the benefits of the omnic’s labor before the Crisis. It was like hearing a toaster ask for equal rights, in their eyes. Unfortunately.

Thankfully, nothing got violent right away, as the monks each took turns, speaking out on a small corner of the street. They were “permitted” to speak there, and nowhere else. They took the offer graciously – they’d had worse.

Zenyatta, a monk with a floating necklace of carved metal orbs, finished his talk, stepped down from the pile of bricks the monks had set up, and made way for the next – and last – speaker. Mondatta was always the last, but, as he stepped up in Zenyatta’s place, he was interrupted before he could even say a word.

Booing, jeering, insults were shouted from the crowd – it itself not surprising. But it could lead to much worse things. The leader of the Shambali splayed his hand palm up on his back – the signal to prepare for an escape.

Someone shouted: “Go back to the factories, you rusty tin cans!” and a glass bottle shot out from the crowd, hurtling toward the monk leader.

In a flash, Mondatta was shoved down from the brick pile, and a shot of blue shattered the bottle in midair, sprinkling shards down onto the ground, and the heads of several humans.

Zenyatta stood in his leader’s place, his orbs shimmering with a blue energy. Behind him, the other monks were escaping through a back alley. But the humans weren’t paying attention to them.

“I do not think that is a very tolerant attitude,” he said, as the humans gaped, angry and confused, some with bleeding faces. “How will you learn if you do not listen?” He slowly began backing toward the exit.

“We don’t want to hear _anything_ you have to say,” someone said.

“That’s a shame,” the monk said. He was almost to the alley now. “I suppose I shall take my leave of you then.”

He spun around and darted down the alley as fast as his legs could carry him, hearing cries of “get him!” and “he went that way!” He didn’t spare a second glance to his colorful pursuers. He just hoped not too many of them were following. And that the others were back where it was safe.

The alley was empty except for the occasional rat and pile of garbage. It leaked oily water seemed to generate darkness, despite the midafternoon sun. He almost slipped on a puddle of water as he ran, but caught himself at the last second, stumbling over a discarded can of something. He didn’t care to stop and check what it was.

“Get over here, you sneaky git,” someone behind him said, and something whirled past his head and smashed on the ground ahead of him.

He was almost to the end of the alley now. He could try and lose them to get back to the others, but if he didn’t…

Zenyatta skidded to a halt and turned around, praying to the Iris it was only a few of them. He saw three, angry people staring him down – a broad man with a beard, a thinner man twirling a switchblade, and a woman, who bent down and scraped a length of wood off the ground.

“Ready to die, little monk?” the broad man said.

“I do not wish to fight,” Zenyatta said, but readied himself nonetheless, his orbs spinning around his neck, glowing. “But, if I must.”

He shot three orbs of energy in quick succession. One to the woman’s board, breaking it in half. One to the thin man’s wrist, hitting him with a sickening _crack_ – he screamed and dropped his knife. One at the broad man, hitting him in the stomach and punching him backwards into the wall.

The woman charged at him, holding half the board in each hand. She swung wide at him with the left arm. Zenyatta ducked under it, appearing behind her and shooting an orb at her back, sending her flying to the ground. She groaned in pain as her face hit the concrete.

The man with the blade clutched his broken wrist on the ground, his knife forgotten in a dirty puddle. Zenyatta watched as the broad man stumbled from the wall and picked up the knife himself.

“I do not wish to fight you,” Zenyatta repeated. “If you cease to threaten my life, or the lives of my companions, I will be on my way.”

The broad man chuckled darkly. “No, bot. This is _personal_ now.”

He leapt toward Zenyatta and slashed down, and the monk jumped back. He kicked the man on the side of his knee, and punched him across the face. He went down.

“Perhaps,” Zenyatta said, staring down at his foes, “you _all_ should find better things to do with your time than hate. Especially if you cannot bear the consequences of your actions.”

He left them in that alley, groaning, bleeding, and in pain, without a single scratch on him.

 

Mondatta paced anxiously outside the monk’s temporary housing – they were borrowing a room from one of their supporters in the city. Zenyatta could see him as soon as he exited the alley, his white robes flapping in the wind, his hands clutched behind his back. He shot worried glances down both ends of the street, then looked helplessly down at the sidewalk. He did a double take when Zenyatta stepped into view, and almost ran over several people as he made his way down the street.

“Brother, what _happened_?” Mondatta asked, embracing Zenyatta so tightly he thought a few screws popped out. “You didn’t follow us down the alley – I was so _worried,_ are you –”

“I’m fine, Brother,” Zenyatta insisted, peeling himself off of the leader of the Shambali. “I made sure you all had time to get to safety.”

“You could have gotten hurt.”

“But I didn’t. I’m perfectly fine.”

Mondatta rubbed his head. “What _am_ I going to do with you, Zenyatta?”

Zenyatta laughed, and began walking toward the house. “Keep me around as long as you can?”

The other monk shook his head and laughed with him. “Yes, I suppose so.”


End file.
